stained-glass masquerades
by lydiamartins
Summary: he's just a grape jolly rancher. —dylan/chris / drabble series.
1. til kingdom come

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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**'til kingdom come**

_i'll be waiting for you for forever_

Tears streamed down her face as she knew had to let go, the wound in her stomach that just couldn't be treated. Just when she had found a place where she could belong, fate had decided to separate her from any chance of a new life, and love. And maybe their love was tragic for a reason; the boy who never found love would never be able to have distractions in his life: love was the biggest distraction of all. But maybe, just maybe, they would meet each other again.

She watched as the cold hardwood floor accepted, released her really, into the universe. There was no way to describe the feeling inside her, the heartbreak, all the emotions building up at once, and then suddenly being destroyed. She should never have gotten attached in the first place. But, fate had let her accept Chris into her life, and for that, she would always be thankful. Dylan had something to keep holding onto (_she keeps holding on to nothing)_ and suddenly, she doesn't feel lost. She feels free.

-.-.-

The sun was bright and shining. The merry tunes of the birds could be heard through the windows, rising in a buried pace and breaking high notes. The weather was nice and warm, perfect temperature for a perfect day. And if it was any other day, he would be elated.

But today, it only made everything worse.

The sky should be pouring rain. The birds should be crying in agony. The weather should be cold and harsh just like his mood. Everything in the world should just be dark and empty. Nothing had meaning anymore. Not without her. Not without Dylan.

He sits up, holding back tears. He knows that if he starts now he won't...can't stop (_is there really a difference?)_. So he steels his pathetically broken nerves, gets out of bed and begin preparing for a horrible day.

First, he takes a shower. Not hot. He doesn't deserve hot water. Instead he has water so cold that his teeth chatter, frozen droplets pelting against his skin. He grabs the soap and rubs his skin red-raw, remembering how her skin would shade red in embarrassment. He scrubs harder, determined to make the color stay. That red was the last thing, the only thing he had left of the love of his life, the color of her hair. He needs something to remind him. To punish him for all of his wrongs.

-.-.-

It was the happiest, and most colorful time of year (even more colorful than that time when the president came to OCD). BOCD was decked out it all its magnificent glory, hues visible from miles away; flags hanging out windowsills and on walls. The campus for the high school had been expanded, and now, it was almost like a castle instead of just a normal high school -but when was anything in Westchester ever normal?-. Even the Picassos, had been moved from the middle school to the high school for this event, the arrival of foreign exchange students (the princess and prince of Russia). There was nothing new in having "royalty" in B.O.C.D., but real royalty (not claimed one, like that ridiculous P.C.) was always something new.

But something was terribly wrong, and he would find out what by the end of the night. He always did.

"Chris! Your mother is calling!"

Maybe a little later, then.

-.-.-

An hour later, when the announcements were over from the booming herald who couldn't wait to let the celebrations begin, had announced whatever needed to be told to the people, and the dances had begun, Chris suddenly found himself to be alone. Sure, there were some students that he could surely speak with it, but nobody that he truly did know. Perhaps, it was doomed that way, that it would was fate for him to be alone, alone and adrift, and in deep despair. He laughed for a moment, a harsh, abrupt one, when he saw how much B.O.C.D. had changed; the students had matured, even enough for Derrick to finally admit his feelings for Massie, and vice versa.

Looking back at the assembled crowd, he realized that everybody had someone; everybody but him. Nobody noticed when Chris left the room. They were to busy with their joyous lives to care about the life of a depressed student. Weren't there people for that?

-.-.-

Greatness came with sacrifices, it was something that Chris had learned over the years.

-.-.-

The markings of violence were etched into the cold marble of the floor. The sounds of her footsteps echoed against the red walls, shattering the omnipresent silence. As she walked forward, she could smell the fear that'd been haunting the inhabitants of the castle as she noticed the drops of blood staining some of the ancient paintings. The young girl's heart raced dangerously as she neared the spiraling staircase. It seemed to go on forever before being swallowed by darkness. For a moment she stopped to admire its height. If the arched ceilings weren't so high the staircase would've, inevitably, been less intriguing to regard. Then, suddenly, a darkness took over. A darkness as black as the night sky.

And, suddenly, Dylan was gone.

-.-.-

Chris had taken the day off from school, and for once, his clueless parents hadn't questioned him. He had received news of her (he couldn't bear to speak, not even think of her name), unless he wanted to spend the rest of the evening in tears (the past two days had already been spent that way). He just couldn't move on. Dylan had captured his heart in a moment, and there was nothing he could do about it. Perhaps it was good that he had been given a chance, to be able to fall in love once. Perhaps love was the greatest adventure of all, and Chris had just been given a taste, a small risk of it all. But perhaps they weren't meant to be together in the first place.

Dylan wasn't convincing himself. Even if she was gone now, she would come back; he knew she would; she promised him, and Dylan never broke her promises.

They would be together, & he would wait until she came back. 'til kingdom comes, he would wait. He would wait forever & a year & another one, because he was Chris, and he really never had moved on from Dylan Marvil.

No matter how far apart they were.

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_For how to forget._

_Beta-read & edited by splendeur (thanks so much!)._

_Suggestions? I'll be doing a series of Dylan one-shots._

_Clara _


	2. last songs

_They heard her singing her last song._

_(The Lady of Shalott, Alfred Lord Tennyson)_

Dylan looks beautiful in white.

She's wearing a lace dress, today, and is running through the sand on the beach, stopping to pick up shells, and throw them into the waves, satisfied with the resounding plunks that they make; sometimes, she likes to throw stones into the water, and hear the echoes of their ripples. Her expression is sometimes confusion, but most of the time she's calm.

To Chris, she's the only _real _thing in the world.

For days on end, he watches her from a distance, hiding behind scraggly bushes and trees, admiring how she moves so gracefully, her movements the farthest from perfection, but he doesn't even care. He likes her lopsided smiles, and the way that the dimples on her face come out the most whenever she's alone, how she still likes watching the Powerpuff Girls on the week-ends; it's the flaws that make her even more beautiful.

It's raining outside, but Dylan's still at the beach, ignoring the yells that she gets from her mother, calling her back into the house.

She climbs up a self-made tree-house; it's makeshift at it's best, and for the first time, she really sees Chris Plovert. Of course, Dylan's seen him thousands, millions of times, whenever she's with the PC and the Briarwood Boys at school, or at the newest red carpet movie premiere down at Hollywood, but this is the first time that she sees him as more than a person.

Dylan cherishes the moment, before walking away.

::

It's raining.

The weather is anywhere from a drizzle to a downpour, and the water droplets fall down from the sky above, barely making a sound in Westchester's ancient-styled courtyard's firebreak, where the rain is absorbed, soaked through the clear patch of land in the center of everywhere.

To Dylan Marvil, the rain is screaming.

"Petunias and lilies are quite atrocious," she murmurs to her doctor. She stands before him; Dylan likes to play make-believe, and thinks that she's always flying, never falling. Today, on this ugly March morning, she knows that she's Dorothy.

At night, Dylan goes traipsing through the sienna woods.

For hours, she walks on and on and comes to a clearing (she doesn't know where she is) in the woods. Dylan moves across the stones, little frantic jumping movements, her burning feet eager to succumb to the whims and fancies of a fairy-tale.

There's a storm above, whirling in circles -beautiful concentric congruence-. But, the rain is still sad; the sky is crying.

Dylan holds her arms up, letting the rain take her joy.

[**Dylan is patient 15, Ward 3, Westchester Asylum**]

::

It's sunny.

The sun peeks out out of the horizon, silently greeting the world with another brand new day. Dylan blinks, expression neutral, "Bad morning," she says, tying her robe together, and pulling it down, to cover her ankles, which suddenly feel bare. She turns around, suddenly, and Dylan Marvil doesn't know where she is.

Her fingers seem as though they're translucent at times; Chris grabs them, as though it's the only thing left that's _real,_ her paper fingers.

The two of them sit in silence. "I'll show you the Library," Dylan remarks, toying with a piece of Chris's hair, and deciding to stand up.

The Library smells like a new beginning, to Dylan, and Chris silently nods his agreement; though he's the most popular, and one of the most talkative boys, back at Briarwood (only normal kids go to school), he can't find a single word to say around her. If his friends even knew about this, whatever this was, Chris would never hear the end of it from his friends, or his girlfriend, Kristen (Kristen's also Dylan's best friend). Dylan doesn't seem to realize that Chris's in love with her.

She gropes for an answer, or at least something to say; for some reason or another, Dylan's speechless.

That night, Dylan takes a sleeping pill, one of those narcotics that's supposed to just let you lay down and fall into a "spell"; she lays down, on her pillowed heart-shaped mattress, in her best fuschia-salmon dress (she's always wanted to look beautiful when she died) with a thorny rose in her left hand, resting upon her fragile heart.

Prince Charming doesn't come.

Her doctor says that that the sleeping pills supplied to Miss Marvil were fakes, and Dylan screams. For days, she doesn't stop. Deep down, Dylan knows that Prince Charming would have come if the sleeping pill had been real.

::

The world is falling apart.

There's something wrong; the world that's waiting for her, and for him, and for all of them, has suddenly developed into some sort of messed-up place, where's nothing safe anymore. It's just frantic movements now, and running, screaming, curses, and oh my my, Dylan just wishes that everything could fall back into place, and be the way that it was before, but what would be the fun in that?

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**a/n: for clarification, this is a drabble series (this "part" is unbeta-d)**


	3. underlings

**for the rainbow fic challenge (not sure who started this). this is mindless fluff, :) please review.**

7/12: edit; grammatical mistakes, made it a little longer towards the end. changed some formatting.

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**underlings**  
the fault, dear brutus, is not in our stars  
but in ourselves, that we are underlings  
_- Julius Caesar_

**:.:.:.:.:**

**violet;**

You are sitting upon the ledge, the roof really, of a tall building —that much, _any _underling would know, whether they had been educated or not —, dangling, waving your legs to the cars racing by beneath, everything moving much slower now that you're up here; it's almost as though you're playing make believe, like when you were a child, but right now, you are playing the role of God.

This is not a role meant for a child.

That's what they call you at least, but deep down, you know that you have never truly been one of those children, laughing and playing with each other like nothing would ever go wrong in this world, this country at least, that is meant to be, supposed to be called "safe".

As if; nothing is safe anymore, not with the wars raging on right outside your windows.

Sometimes, you just come out here to escape all of it, but truly, it's a lot better when you're standing outside, because you're not really that afraid of dying (dying brings no real fear), but you're just afraid of losing yourself in the midst of it all, losing everything that you've stood for, because watch and see, the war's going to turn you, and the rest of them, into monsters.

"They already have started the processes," you comment.

There's someone standing next to you know, who sits down, not caring that he could just push you off the ledge; after all, the two of you are on opposing sides, if that even makes sense, but it's not like you're star-crossed lovers, you barely know each other. Most people associate the two of you as the modern type of Romeo and Juliet, those stupid people they name you after.

It's sickening to think that you're supposed to aspire to be like them, because seriously? Romeo just broke up with his girlfriend the day (or was it a minute) before meeting Juliet, and really, it was more of a sort of lust, and their deaths were really stupid, not heartbreaking, but then again, you've never been that romantic. "It's violet, now."

"What's violet?" This part doesn't really make sense to you.

He turns towards you, looking into your greens with his blues. "The sun."

**indigo;**

You're holding the embroidery close to your chest now, as you rock gently back and forth because there's nobody to hold you tight (at least not when you need people the most).

It's this faded kind of indigo.

For the most part, you've usually associated indigo with jean and denim jackets, things that you've never really been allowed to wear, because after all, you're like the princess, and princesses wear all this ugly satins and velvets, just because they're aesthetically pleasing, but then again, who are you to care if you aren't easy on the eyes?

Oh, that's right: your stupid grandmother told you that.

You're not really sure what's wrong with your grandmother, and how the fact that you really wished that yours wasn't so bad-ass, if grandmothers can even be called by the term "bad-ass", but if there was a competition for the most bad-ass grandmother, yours would win: there's no doubt about it. She's the kind who doesn't sit around knitting ugly sweaters, instead preferring to lead the tango on cruises or bars, riding the occasionally red, sometimes newly painted blue motorcycle to her retirement house.

Yeah, your life pretty much isn't considered normal, which makes it just the _teensiest _bit more unfortunate, especially the fact since where you are right now is a cemetery.

**blue;**

His eyes are blue.

It's just something random that you notice one day, even though you've probably known millions of years earlier, after having looked into those eyes thousands of times, that his eyes are blue —they're not just a _normal _blue, but this kind of sickening yale blue (even though yale blue's kind of ravishing), that just makes you want to look away because it's so disgusting.

No, when you mention it to your friends, they all gush and go onto lectures, a whole series of them, each taking up about twenty minutes each, about how you're totally in love with him, and it's okay to admit your feelings, but how to do that? That's the hard part.

"I'm not in love with him! I am most certainly not in love with him!" You scream. Your friends only shake their heads in a disapproving matter, and suddenly you wish that you could just decapitate them. Oh, the times of the French Revolution, how we miss you.

**green;**

On the other hand, green is the color of your eyes.

You've never liked her eyes, because they're always this same, boring green, not ravishing like the greens of rare emeralds found only in the most rarest of mines, but green like the boring trees that you see when you're going through car trips in year-long forest preserves, which are quite boring if you might say, and after all, they're not even kaleidoscope.

See, your eyes apparently, according to the newest issue of Teen Vogue, reflect your personality, and apparently according to Teen Vogue, green eyes mean that "you have the great imagination, such as madness and extravagance, as well as the gift of healing. your heterochromia eyes show that you have great power to help those in need".

_What_ the frick.

"Ma'am. This is Dylan Marvil. I was wondering if I could please cancel my subscription to Teen Vogue?"

**yellow;**

There is this burning.

Tinges of every hue come out from the Sun, but if you are the Sun, that means you are yellow, much like a banana, which emits nothing but disgusting, slimy flavor, some potassium (not as much as coconut water) and absolutely no radiance. "That was the _worst _pick-up line, ever," you swear. There are probably worse pick-up lines, but you can't seem to think of any.

"Is the sun..." you groan, knowing that you've lost the battle. "...or is that just you lighting up my day?"

You mock applaud him, slow claps, laughing all the while, and suddenly both of you are laughing, because seriously, it's really not like him to use pick-up lines on girls like you, or on any girls in particular. Perhaps, he is not a normal child, but you are both underlings, and there is no place for normal children in a world like this, where everything is light and playful one moment, and the next it is as dark as the nightmares that plague the worlds.

"I'm a banana." It's supposed to break the mood, your statement, that is, but it just reminds the both of you that there is no time for playfulness in situations like this, especially when both of you know that you could die at any moment.

**orange;**

You decide that you're going to pick up the art of baking —that much, any _trophy _wife (in the future, that's what you're going to be) should be able to now.

Sooner or later, you realize, that it's actually a lot harder than you thought it would be; buying the fancy apron and equipment isn't enough to create something complicated without multiple assistants and a sous chef, and it's getting harder by the moment. You go on all these cooking websites, and realize for the millionth time that the orange sorbet's base will still stay curdled unless you get off your lazy ass, go to the grocery store and buy some whipped cream to mix in, instead of milk that's probably been out of date for about a century, by now.

The telephone rings, and you're snapped out of your thoughts, as you eagerly grab for it, recognizing the phone number, then cough for a moment, trying to keep your voice cool, and not too excited, because that's just a turn-off. "Um, hey."

"Hey, Dylan. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out today?"

He wanted to hang out with _you? _You, the ugliest person in the world, the designated ugly fat friend, if you even had any friends besides him, and after all he's popular and all, and he has other friends, but maybe all his friends have disappeared, into time traveling accidents...blargh. You hate your thoughts. "Sure!" Oops, that sounded too excited.

"Okay, see you at ten o'clock?"

"Can't wait!"

No! You can wait. You can totally wait. Actually, you really can't wait because the oven just started beeping, and you're not really sure what's going to happen to your allowance if you set the summer home on flames while your parents are away.

**red;**

You are holding your breath now.

He is standing outside your door, perhaps with something romantic in that designer shoe warehouse bag of his, with its bright purple and green colors, showing that he isn't afraid to stand up for himself (stop reading Teen Vogue, Dylan), and you're not really sure what to do if he presents you with a rose, because you've never actually spoken to a guy besides him, unless you count that beady-eyed librarian that you haven't talked to since you watched the first episode of Goosebumps.

The doorbell rings a few more times, and you're wondering if he can see you. You open the door, nonetheless, a bright smile on your face as you welcome him into your humble abode. "Hey!"

"Hey, Dylan! I was just stopping by, to drop of this bag." His cheeks blush bright red all of a sudden, and you're not really sure how to react. "So, um, bye!"

Well, at least you didn't make that situation awkward; he did, you think to yourself. You're curious though, all of a sudden, and quickly open up the bag, wondering what's inside. You're faced with a bag of red chocolates, all with one letter stuck on the insides, you soon realize once you start eating the first chocolate, and then the second, and then the third, and soon, you've eaten twenty-nine chocolates, and your stomach _really _hurts, when you realize that he likes you too.

(Dylan Marvil, will you go out with me?)


End file.
